


Suicide of Fake Genius [Johnlock]

by BBCSherlocks



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Dark Sherlock, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Faked Suicide, Hurt John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock fanfic, M/M, Multiple character pov, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Fanfiction, Sherlock Holmes Fanfic, Sherlock Holmes Fanfiction, Sherlock Season Two Episode Three, Sherlock fanfic, Suicidal John, Suicidal Sherlock, The Reichenbach Fall, first person POV, johnlock fanfiction, save John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2018-11-04 02:39:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 8,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10981632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BBCSherlocks/pseuds/BBCSherlocks
Summary: [TRIGGER WARNING: Contains self harm, suicidal thoughts and acts, descriptive scenes of gore, cuts, and scars. Please do not read if you will be triggered by these scenes]____________________"Goodbye, John.""No," he cries. "Don't."I nod, then throw the phone on the roof behind me.John takes the phone away from his ear and screams, "Sherlock!"I spread my arms out and fall forward off the building, hoping that something will catch me-trusting that this will all go according to plan.The last thing I see is John's face filling with fear as he says my name again, and then it's over.For now.For him.It's the end of Sherlock Holmes, the world's famous (and only) consulting detective genius.[all characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC, I do not own these characters, I'm just borrowing them]





	1. One • Sherlock

**One**

**Sherlock**

**J** ohn gets out of the taxi and answers the phone. " _Hello?"_

I inch closer to the ledge, looking down at him. "John," I say, hoping he will hear the longing in my voice—the longing for him.

He starts walking across the street, towards the building—towards _me_. "Hey Sherlock, you okay?" he asks.

Okay. Okay. . . _Okay._

Such a funny word, _okay._ And why is it, when someone asks the question, we feel obligated to say yes, even if it isn't true?

"Turn around and walk back the way you came," I tell him, ignoring his question, because I'm honestly not sure if I am. Okay, I mean. I'm going to die. Or so he thinks.

"No, I'm coming in," he says, still walking towards the building I'm standing on.

"Just do as I ask!" I yell, then take a deep, shaky breath. "Please," I add, trying to stay calm.

John looks around and starts walking back across the street. "Where?" he asks as soon as he reached the sidewalk where he was before when he got out of the taxi.

"Stop there." I tell him and he stops. "Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"Oh, God." He looks up and fear fills his pale face and his eyes that always seem to be a different colour. Today they're a piercing blue.

Today I will get lost in them, one last time. . .

"I. . . I. . ." I shake my head, "I can't come down, so we'll just have to do it like this."

John furrows his brow. "What's going on?"

"An apology. . ."

John shakes his head, not quite understanding.

"It's all true."

"What?"

"Everything they said about me," I continue. "I invented Moriarty," I look back at Moriarty's dead body laying behind me on the rooftop, blood streaming from his head and pooling all around him. The gun is still resting in his limp hand.

I look back at John, who shakes his head a little. "Why are you saying this?" he asks.

Tears stream down my face, not because I'm going to die—because I'm not—but because of John. The look on his face as he figures it all out. "I'm a fake."

He blinks rapidly. "Sherlock,"

"The newspapers were right all along," I go on. "I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson, and Molly . . . in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you that I created Moriarty for my own purposes."

John is starting to get angry and clenches his fists.

 _Good,_ I think. _It'll make it easier to leave him._

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met. . . the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?"

I say what everyone thinks of me, "No one could be that clever,"

"You could." John says, and the way he says it makes me think he actually believes it.

I laugh and he stares at me sadly from the ground, probably wondering for a moment if I'm right. If I'm really _not_ the world's greatest detective. If I'm really not the smartest man alive. And that look. . . it tears me apart.

I start crying again. "I researched you,"

John clenches his jaw. And I continue, "Before we met, I discovered everything that I could to impress you. It's a trick. Just a magic trick."

He closes his eyes and shakes his head. "No, alright, stop it now." He starts walking across the street again.

"No, stay exactly where you are. Don't move." I order.

John puts his right hand up like he's surrendering when he hears the urgency in my voice. His left hand is still holding the phone to his ear and he backs up. "Alright."

I put my left hand out, suddenly out of breath, probably because I'm not used to crying this much. The tears are running down my face now and I don't even bother wiping them away. "Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call," I say, "it's, um. . . it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"

John pulls the phone away from his ear and shakes his head, blinking back tears. He puts the phone back up to his ear and says, "Leave a note when?" even though I'm certain he knows exactly what I'm talking about, even if that's the only thing I'm certain of right now.

"Goodbye, John."

"No," he cries. "Don't."

I nod a little, then throw the phone on the roof behind me.

John takes the phone away from his ear and screams, "Sherlock!"

I spread my arms out and fall forward off the building, hoping that something will catch me—trusting that this will all go according to plan.

The last thing I see is John's face filling with fear as he says my name again, and then it's over.

For now.

For him.

It's the end of Sherlock Holmes, the world's famous (and only) consulting detective genius.

  


  


  



	2. Two • John

**Two**

**John**

**H** e's gone.

I held his wrist, still warm and covered in blood, hoping and praying I would feel a pulse. But there was nothing. No heart beat, no sign of life whatsoever.

One of the pedestrians that was around when it happened helped me over to a nearby bench and sat with me, and that was the only thing holding me back from screaming my lungs out—the only thing holding me back from following Sherlock . . .

I wouldn't. I told myself that I wouldn't leave, too. If anything I would stay for Mrs. Hudson.

Walking back to Baker Street was a complete blur. And if I hadn't known my way by heart, I'm not sure if I would have even made it back, my head was somewhere else entirely, but I could find my way to Baker Street from anywhere in London.

I open the door to 221B and as soon as it closes behind me I slump to the floor and I pull my knees up to my chest, letting my head fall into my hands.

“John?” Mrs. Hudson calls from the kitchen. “Did you find Sherlock?”

I hear her footsteps getting louder as she approaches and she lets out a small “Oh,” when she sees me.

She sits down next to me and I look up at her. She has a dishtowel slung over her shoulder and her hands are red from the hot water. “You're lucky,” she says, even though that's the opposite of what I'm feeling right now, “I don't sit on the floor for just anyone. It messes with my hip, and you'll probably have to help me up.”

I force myself to smile.

“John,” she says.

I nod.

“Where's Sherlock?”

I clench my jaw, unable to tell if I'm angry or sad. A bit of both, I suppose. “He. . .” I shake my head and blink back tears. I can't do this. I can't say it out loud.

But he asked me to, so I have to. For him.

“He was a fake,” I tell her.

Mrs. Hudson's eyes get wide and she looks like she wants to laugh for a second, then she sees the serious look on my face and decides against it. “A fake?” she repeats.

“A fake,” I say again. “He created Moriarty for his own purposes, that's what he said before he. . .”

“Before he what, dear?”

My tears blur her face as I look up at her. “Before he jumped.”

She puts a hand over her mouth and her eyes get wide, but she doesn't cry. Not for the first time do I wonder what Mrs. Hudson has gone through to get to this point. To seem so. . . emotionless.

I lean my head back against the wall, with my knees still pulled up and my forearms resting on them. We sit there for awhile—Mrs. Hudson and I—not saying a word, but still being there for each other and finding comfort in the silence we share together.

I dream about that moment every night. I dream about my best friend—my only friend—jumping off of the rooftop. About the blood covering his face and my fingertips pressing against his wrist, hoping for a pulse. Then nothing.

When I wake up in the mornings I still expect to find Sherlock to be standing at the open window playing violin.

When I come home from the grocery store I still expect him sitting in his chair with his fingertips pressed together, thinking.

When I open my laptop I still expect there to be a new window open with news articles and a new name in the search bar.

But none of those things happen. Mrs. Hudson hasn't reminded me to pay rent—I think she's afraid I don't have the money. Or, if she does remind me, that I'll end up leaving. We need each other now, because we don't have anyone else.

  


x x x

  


Mrs. Hudson and I are going to Sherlock's funeral today. I'm surprised at the amount of people that are there—I honestly didn't expect anyone to come. But they did. Molly, Greg, Anderson, and even Sally Donovan came, and I tried not to tell myself that she's the reason Sherlock is dead in the first place.

Mrs. Hudson holds my arm the whole time. I think she's afraid that, if she lets go, she'll lose me too.

I can't guarantee that she won't.


	3. Three • John

**Three**

**John**

**M** rs. Hudson and I plan to visit Sherlock's grave every week. I moved out after Sherlock's funeral. I couldn't look at his empty chair and all of his belongings any longer.

Today is the first day since his funeral that I've been to Sherlock's grave. It's nice to see Mrs. Hudson. I haven't seen her since I moved out, either. It's what I look forward to out of these weekly visits.

Mrs. Hudson brought flowers. I feel embarrassingly empty handed as she sets the flowers down.

“There's all the _stuff,_ ” Mrs. Hudson says quietly. “All of the science equipment. I left it all in boxes, I don't know what needs doing. I thought I'd take it to a school,” she looks at me. “Would you. . . ?”

I shake my head and clench my fists. “I can't go back to the flat again—not at the moment.”

Mrs. Hudson clings to my arm again, and I have a feeling it's something I should get used to.

“I'm angry,” I say, taking a deep breath.

Mrs. Hudson pats my arm sympathetically and I try not to break down.

“It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that. That's the way he made _everyone_ feel,” she shakes her head a little. “All the marks on my table. And the _noise—_ firing his gun at half past one in the morning!”

“Yeah.” I say quietly.

“Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine—keeping bodies where there's food!”

“Yes.” I close my eyes.

“And the fighting!” she continues, her voice shaking. “Drove me up the wall with his carryings-on!”

I open my eyes and turn to Mrs. Hudson. “Listen, I-I'm not actually _that_ angry, okay?”

She nods. “Okay. I'll leave you alone to, um. . . you know.” She lets go of my arm and walks away. I can hear her crying and I turn to see her take a tissue out of her purse and blow her nose.

I look down at the headstone. _Sherlock Holmes._

“Um . . . ,” I shake my head a little, trying (to no avail) to keep the tears at bay. “You told me once that you weren't a hero. Um. . . there were times I didn't even think you were human, but let me tell you this; you were the best man, and the most human . . . human being that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a like. And so . . . there.”

I let out a long breath and look over my shoulder to make sure Mrs. Hudson didn't come back before I rest my fingertips on the cold stone.

“I was so alone, and I owe you so much,” I say, wishing it wasn't too late to say these things to his face. Wishing it wasn't too late for . . . well, everything.

I take a deep shaky breath as more tears fill my eyes. I'm not sure I'll be able to keep them at by much longer. “Okay.” I say and start to walk away.

I turn back after a few steps as the tears start to escape, streaming down my face. I don't bother to wipe them away. “No, please, there's just one more thing, mate. One more thing—one more miracle—Sherlock, for me. Don't . . . be . . . dead,” my voice breaks on the last word. _Dead,_ “would you do . . ? Just for me, just stop it. Stop this.” I gesture at his grave as if he will just burst up through the fresh dirt and tell me it was all a joke.

_Some sick joke._

I stare at the smooth marble. At the name SHERLOCK HOLMES, and all of the flowers crowded around his headstone.

I take a sharp inhale and wipe my eyes. I raise my head and give one quick nod before turning and walking away. It takes everything in me to walk away from my best friend. I made a promise to myself to come back every week to put new flowers around his headstone and to talk to him—to say the things I should have said before.

I'll come back. Every week.


	4. Four • Sherlock

**Four**

**Sherlock**

**I** make sure to stay out of view while I watch John talk to my headstone. Little does he know, sitting below him in the damp, fresh dirt, is an empty coffin. I try not to think that someday I will fill that coffin. I wonder who would go to my funeral then, when I'm old and have lied to them more times than I can count.

I didn't want a funeral, and I would probably want one less when I'm old. I never cared much for scenes, unless they were crime scenes.

Mrs. Hudson must have arranged the funeral. There were far too many flowers for my taste, and I know John wouldn't have done that.

He's angry, and I don't blame him.

I can hear everything he says, just like I could when I was laying on the concrete. I could hear his whole world falling apart.

John's voice breaks at the end when he says, “Don't . . . be. . . dead.” And I'm honestly surprised he's made so much progress. I know he's been seeing his therapist—she even made him say it out loud—but most people can't. Say it out loud that is.

It takes everything in me not to step forward. But I keep my face blank and hide underneath the low branches of a tree. John might have seen me if he wasn't so caught up in his whole speech.

When he's finishes I stand and admire my headstone. That's one thing Mrs. Hudson got right—it's one that I would have chosen.

She came with him today, and I heard her talking about how they're going to come back every week. I remind myself to come back, too. Just in case.


	5. Five • John

**Five**

**John**

**W** e keep our promise for awhile. Mrs. Hudson is the first to stop coming every week. It's been two and a half months since Sherlock died, and I would be lying if I said I knew I would still be here, but I'm getting along just fine . . .

I take my phone out of my pocket to call Mrs. Hudson, but I know it's no use—I can't force her to come every week.

“ _Hello dear. I'm sorry I couldn't make it today. I've been busy these past couple weeks. I've started baking more and I've had several people interested in renting your old room. I put Sherlock's old room up for rent today and already have four people interested . . .”_ She sighs and sounds proud of herself. It was a different excuse last week, but I don't blame her for not wanting to come here. What's left to say?

It takes me a moment to process everything she's saying, she was talking so fast.

“Don't put it up for rent!” I say hurriedly.

“ _Well, what else am I supposed to do with it? I can't just leave it the way it is. It needs to be filled with someone who cares . . . someone who won't make me feel so lonely.”_ I realised then that she was all alone there. I guess it should have occurred to me sooner, but it didn't even cross my mind. I didn't even think about how long Sherlock and I had lived at Baker Street and how she was used to all of the noise. 

“I'll rent it,” I tell her, before I even make up my mind, “I'll even move back in if you want, just please . . . don't let anyone else live there. Not yet.”

Mrs. Hudson sighs again, but this time it's sadly instead of proudly.  _“Alright then. You don't have to pay, or even move back in if you want. But I won't let anyone move in. Not yet.”_

I let out a breath of relief and nod. “Okay, thank you.”

“ _You're welcome dear.”_

She hangs up and I slide my phone back into my pocket.

  
  


x x x

  
  


Mrs. Hudson is the first one to stop coming to talk to Sherlock, but I'm not far behind her. I keep coming for another two weeks, and it's then I decide that I need to move on.

I look down at Sherlock's headstone and shake my head lightly, letting out a long breath. “I'm afraid I have nothing left to say,” I admit quietly. There's a rustling in the trees and I glance up, but it's just the wind.

“I need to move on,” my voice drops to a whisper. “I'm sorry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I'm all caught up and I've posted everything I have written so far, I'd like to inform you of my updating schedule: this story will be updated every Tuesday and Friday at no specific time.   
> Thanks for reading this so far, I hope you're enjoying it. Please let me know if you find any spelling errors, this story is not yet edited.


	6. Chapter 6

**Six**

**Sherlock**

**I** almost blew my cover today. I like to mix up my hiding spots so if John notices me by any chance, he wouldn't be able to find me in the same spot and would think he made the whole thing up. 

I knew he wasn't going to see me, and if I'm being honest with myself, I was just bored.  I've been waiting around for something exciting to happen—for John to say  _ something _ that would let me know he felt the same way I did. 

But he hasn't yet, and this will be the last day he visits. He has nothing left to say, and I don't blame him.

I was hiding behind a row of trees today, and leaned against one that wasn't half as sturdy as it looked. John glanced up, but didn't see me. I ducked down just in time.

But what if I want him to see me? What if I want him to keep holding onto this hope that I'm still alive. I know he's hoping that now—why else would he come talk to my headstone every week?—but he's losing hope. I can tell by his voice, the way he sounds disappointed and sort of ridiculous for even hoping.

His fingers brush my headstone and his posture slumps a little.

“I guess I had hoped you'd come back,” he admits. “But I know now it was stupid to hope that. I was there that day—I saw you jump. I felt for your pulse but there was . . . nothing.”

It breaks my heart to see him like this.

_I'm sorry, John Watson._

I'm sorry. But that doesn't matter, does it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, I'll try to make it up on Tuesday with a longer chapter! Thank you so much for reading.


	7. Seven • John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I didn't post this chapter yesterday. I was having a really bad day and couldn't post. The schedule is still Tuesday's and Friday's, it's just this chapter that was late. <3

**Seven**

**John**

** I ** t was stupid to even hope that Sherlock would come back, but I couldn't help it. I had to make sure that I wasn't giving up on him too soon.

I call Mrs. Hudson as soon as soon as I get to the car.

She answers with her usual,  _ “Hello dear,” _ and it's comforting—even if that's the one thing that will never change, I'll take it.

“Can I move back in?” I ask quietly, like I'm ashamed to ask, even though I know she'll say yes.

“ _Of course you can, John. You can have Sherlock's old room if you'd like,”_

“I'm fine with my old room, just as long as . . . as long as you don't let anyone else rent it.”

  
  


x x x

  
  


It doesn't take me long to pack all of my things I still had most of it in boxes from when I moved in a few weeks ago. I didn't want to unpack everything, because then it would feel so . . . permanent. I wasn't ready for that. Not yet.

Mrs. Hudson is happy to see me. She made a classic english breakfast, even though it's almost four o'clock.

While we eat she tells me about this new place she went to for lunch yesterday. “They have  _ the best _ fish and chips I've ever tasted,” she's saying, but I'm only half listening. 

My mind is in a million different places, but the main thing I'm thinking is;  _ He's gone. Sherlock is gone, and he isn't coming back. I can hope and pray all I want, but it's useless. He's gone. _

“Are you ready for dessert?” Mrs. Hudson asks, even though I'm not even half done with my first plate of food.

I nod and take an bite of beans, pushing them together in a small pile so it looks like I ate more than I did. I learned this trick from Sherlock. If you spread all of your food onto your plate it looks like you haven't eaten any of it, but if you push it all together it looks like you ate most of it.

He used to crumble his biscuits or scones with his fork so it looked like he took a bite out of it. Sometimes he would even hide it under another kind of food so no one asked questions. Sherlock hated that. Whenever I would ask why he didn't eat his food he would roll his eyes and sigh. He never answered.

Mrs. Hudson dished up at spoonful of Trifle and put it in a small glass bowl. I wonder how she had the time to make all of this in such a short amount of time.

Had she known I was coming back? It wouldn't surprise me.

“So,” she says, sitting back down. “Why did you suddenly decide to come back?”

Although I'm sure she knows the answer, I say, “I couldn't be alone anymore. The flat I was in was small and boring. Plus, I knew you could use the company.”

She doesn't say anything, she just stares sadly at her Trifle like it was the one that said that and not me.

“Well, I'm glad to have you back,” she says quietly, still not looking up at me. “Whatever the reason may be,”

“I'm glad to be back.” I say, and I mean it. This is the only place I really feel at home.

  
  



	8. Eight • Sherlock

**Eight**

**Sherlock**

** I ** keep coming back, even though I know it's pointless. But the only time I could see John was when he came to the cemetery, and I looked forward to what he had to say, even if it wasn't much. Nothing earth shattering like I had hoped, but still.

I pass Baker Street, even though I know it's risky. I walk up to the door, and almost knock, but stop myself just before my knuckles hit the door.

Too risky.

I walk away with my head down, just in case someone would walk by and notice me. I should have worn a disguise or something, but I wasn't thinking straight. I shouldn't have even come here to begin with.

I turn the corner and walk to Lauriston Gardens, the first crime scene I took John to, and stand outside of the house for a moment.

The first crime scene I took John to . . .

_How romantic._

“Shut up.” I say to the voice in my head. Not that it will listen.

I take a taxi to the edge of town where I'm supposed to meet Mycroft—apparently he has some important job for me to do.

I don't mind, it will keep my head busy for awhile.

  
  



	9. Nine • John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this??? Two chapters in a day?! *gasp*  
> Don't thank me yet. You should read the chapter first.

**Nine**

**John**

** I ** could have sworn I saw Sherlock walking by Baker Street today. I looked out the window and saw a tall man with dark curls walking by, but he was wearing jeans— _ jeans _ for christ sakes. Sherlock would never wear jeans. I don't think he even  _ owns _ a pair of jeans.

I tell Mrs. Hudson I'm going to take a walk to clear my head and take the long way to Lauriston Gardens, the first crime scene I went to.

I'd seen plenty of dead people before in the army, but this was different. This time no one knew how the person died. They weren't just stuck in the line of fire.

It was different because I had Sherlock by my side.

I look up at the house, feeling small as it looms over me, casting a shadow from the setting sun.

I walk across town to 22 Northumberland Street. I go into the restaurant across the street. Angelo is at one of the tables, taking someone's order.

He turns and looks surprised when he sees me. “John!”

I smile and nod.

“I didn't expect to see you here. You know, after what happened . . .”

When I don't say anything, Angelo claps his hands and rubs them together like he just came up with some evil plan. “What can I do for you?”

“I came here for dinner,” I lie.

He squints and I wonder if he can tell I already ate, but then he smiles and motions to the mostly empty restaurant. “You can sit anywhere you'd like. Dinner is on the house.”

I open my mouth to protest but Angelo holds his hand up. “Please, I insist.”

I give in and not, scanning the room even though I already know where I want to sit.

Angelo hands me a menu as I sit at the table—the one Sherlock and I sat at with the large picture window.

I look out the window at 22 Northumberland Street and sigh.

When Angelo comes back I order pasta, the same thing I got last time, and roll a straw wrapper between my thumb and forefinger while I wait for my food.

I look back out the window and see someone leaning against a streetlamp across the street.

Angelo places a steaming bowl of pasta on the table in front of me and I thank him. When I look back out the window, the figure is gone.

  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think John would've seen Sherlock at Lauriston Gardens if he hadn't taken the long way?  
> Tell me what you thought of chapters eight and nine in the comments, I want to hear what you have to say about it :)


	10. Ten • Sherlock

**Ten**

**Sherlock**

** I ** know I need to stop spying on John like this, but when Angelo texted me and told me that he was there, I had to see him. It might be my last chance.

I stood across the street and watched him sit at the same table we sat at together, the night after he moved in. He looked out as Angelo was arriving with his food, and when John looked away, I took that as my cue to leave.

Mycroft is sending me somewhere in Japan or something to take care of some of his unfinished business.

“After that you'll be going to Serbia for a year or two.”

I didn't want to leave, but I knew that I couldn't stay here, either. At this rate John would figure out it was me following him by the end of the week. And then what?

Moriarty's henchmen were still out there somewhere, and they would kill John and Mrs. Hudson as soon as they found out I was back.

I make a mental note to have Mycroft's men find them and have them arrested—or killed, I don't mind.

I thought about sneaking into Baker Street and taking some of my things, but Mrs. Hudson has a gun, and one of them would definitely notice.

That's alright . . . I'll let Mycroft send me where he wants and I'll fix all of his problems.

Without John, what more do I have to live for anyway?

  
  


  
  



	11. Eleven • John

**Eleven**

**John**

**I** try to remember every case I helped Sherlock solve. Most of the time I was just following along, taking mental notes that I would later sit down and write for my blog.

There were very few times when I would actually give my input and even fewer times when I would be right. 

But every once in awhile I would say something as simple as, “Do you think the husband did it?” or “Where's the dog?” And Sherlock would give me this look—his whole face would light up and he would point at me. 

“Yes!” he would yell. “Of course! How didn't I see it before? You're a genius!”

And that little bit of praise would keep the smile on my face for the rest of the day. We'd solve the case and go back to Baker Street for whatever feast Mrs. Hudson had prepared while we were gone. 

On days when Sherlock couldn't solve a case he would be quiet for the rest of the night. He would go up to his room without having dinner and he would play violin all night. 

It was those nights—the nights he (or we) had solved a case—that were the best. 

Those were the days that kept me going. 

I loved writing about those cases—my fingers would fly across the keyboard and I'd write  _ thousands  _ of words about a single case. I'd go back through and cut some of the longer paragraphs out—the ones that went to far—the paragraphs that talked about the deep blue-green colour of Sherlock's eyes.

I try to replay each of those cases in my head when I wake up from a bad dream. But it isn't just a dream. It's the day Sherlock died —the day he jumped—replayed over and over again in my head.

So I think of the cases we solved. Well, I try to. But I can't remember them properly. 

I can't remember if the kid that killed his twin was the one that actually committed suicide or if it was the twin brother's best friend. 

I can't remember if the guy that was ripped apart limb-from-limb was because of the dog or the alcoholic neighbor that sometimes thought their house was his when he got really drunk. 

They call get mixed together in my head. 


	12. Twelve • Sherlock

**Twelve**

**Sherlock**

**Five Months Later**

**Topčider, Serbia**

“ **Y** ou know, I could get used to this place,” I say, walking over a small bridge and looking down at the green water on either side. 

I turn to look at John, smiling.

My face falls when I see the empty space beside me. Because John isn't here. He hasn't been for months now, but I still can't used to the feeling.

I walk along the path, through the bright green trees.

The breeze ruffles my hair and I can hear Mycroft saying, “You need a shave.” I try to replace his voice with John's, but it's slipping away from me.

With every day that passes I forget small things like the colour of John's eyes, and how his whole face would wrinkle up like a puppy's when he laughed.

His voice when he would scold me for not eating any food four days in a row.

The tired but happy look on his face when we solved a case together . . .

I'd do anything to have that back.

_Anything._

Because he's my everything.

Even if he knew I was still alive I could never admit that.

Blimey, that would be embarrassing.

“Freeze!”

Ten men come out from behind the trees wearing all black. They have masks on, so I can't see their faces, but I know they aren't some kids playing around.

They have assault rifles in their hands. The strap attached to the guns are slung over their shoulders. They have smaller guns strapped to their thighs and I can make out the outline of a knife in their lower pockets.

I quickly scan the trees in the distance and, just as I suspected, there are snipers above us.

They have me surrounded, and I'm outnumbered.

It's time to surrender.


	13. Thirteen • Sherlock

**Thirteen**

**Sherlock**

**Exact Location Unknown**

** S ** omeone barks an order to the man beside me and I feel a sharp kick to my ribs.

I silently thank Mycroft for teaching me so many languages, because without him I'd have no idea what the man was saying.

And then I realise that maybe it would be better if I didn't know what they were saying.

“We need answers!” the man yells. “And I'll do whatever I need to to get those answers. Hit him again.”

I brace myself for another kick to the ribs. I can already feel them bruising.

“Tell me where he is,” the man that kicked me leans in close. “If you do we'll let you go.”

I mumble random words just to get him to untie my mouth. If they wanted answers, they shouldn't cover my mouth with a dirty cloth.

“What did you say?”

“I said,” I'm panting, from both the lack of breath and the pain, “fuck off.”

The cracking of the whip is deafening as it hits my back.

I'd be lying if I said it wasn't worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, I'm trying to get ready for Camp NaNoWriMo, so the updates might be shorter and more irregular so I'm sorry for that but I'll try to update as much as possible!


	14. Fourteen • John

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [This chapter has a serious trigger warning! Please proceed with caution]

**Fourteen**

**John**

**T** he thing about someone leaving your life so suddenly—so unexpectedly—is that you don't have time to prepare yourself for it. You can't make a plan for the bad days when you really miss them and want to go with them—to find them in the afterlife or wherever it is people go when they're gone.

It's been almost six months since Sherlock died, and I still don't know what to do. I know know how to get past this horrible black feeling buried deep in the pit of my stomach. Every time I try to move on I think of him and what he would've wanted for me. I like to tell myself that he'd want me to be happy—to finally move out of Baker Street and move on—to start a life without him. But I know him better than that. He would want me to stick around. To wait up for him, even if he's never coming back home.

Mrs. Hudson is doing everything she can, and I appreciate it, but it's not working. Nothing is.

I know it's time to move on, but I can't bring myself to do so.

  


x x x

  


“Do you want to come with me?” Mrs. Hudson asks, wrapping her scarf around her neck even though it's still surprisingly warm warm outside. Sometimes I sit in Sherlock's chair that I moved to the window and look outside. I'll watch the water droplets stream steadily down the window. Sometimes I'll press tobacco into Sherlock's pipe—the one he rarely smoked because he liked cigarettes better—and light it, blowing smoke out the crack I opened in the window and watch the smoke swirl, then get beaten down by the rain.

“No,” I say, leaning back in Sherlock's chair. I add, “Thank you, though.” So I don't sound rude.

Mrs. Hudson purses her lips and nods, closing the door behind her.

I wait until I hear her close the door downstairs and I see her walking down the street until I stand. I look out the window again, just to make sure she didn't forget something before going to the bathroom.

I open the middle drawer, pushing my razor and shaving cream aside to get to the back. A box of blades sit there and I pull them out, opening the box and taking one out.

I put everything back in the drawer where it was and sit back in the chair, studying the blade.

I set it on the arm of the chair and look out the window, trying to figure everyone that passes out—trying to guess their stories—to deduce them they way Sherlock would have. I don't usually come up with anything though. Just the obvious things like the man with dirt under his fingernails, holding a paper bag and stumbling down the street. He's obviously a drunk and spends all of his money on alcohol, leaving very little for clothing (and a shower. I walked past him one day with Mrs. Hudson and we both agreed we would let him come inside to take a shower.)

When I can't figure anything out about anyone, I pick the blade back up, pressing it into the skin below my wrist. I drag it across my arm, watching the blood start to run down. It's enough to distract me from the other pain. I'm not with him yet, but I will be.

  



	15. Fifteen • Sherlock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. Sorry I haven't uploaded a new chapter in so long. I've been extremely busy and a lot has been going on. But I'll hopefully be updating more regularly again <3

**Fifteen**

**Sherlock**

**I** sleep with chains tied to my wrists and ankles. I hear the shouts and screams of the other people around me. I lay on my stomach, because my back is too cut up to sleep on. I've been living off of dirty water and stale bread for the past six months. My ribs noticeably stick out, but that's not even on my top ten things to be worried about list.

The list is actually quite ridiculous. Because John is on that list four times, and not the fact that I'm starving and won't make it much longer.

Escape is what I should be thinking about instead of him. But those eyes . . . I can't get them out of my mind.

I don't know what month it is exactly. I know it's been around six months since I got here because one of the men holding me hostage said, “We've held him for six months and we still can't get any answers,” but what would that make it? April?

My heart sinks, reminding me it's still there and beating. I've been away for over a year. I left in December, after Christmas. And five months after that I came here, which would have been May. . . John had a Christmas without me. _My family_ had a Christmas without me.

I bet it was wonderful. Mycroft could brag all he wanted about his job and I wasn't there to take away from his attention or shoot him down.

I bet it was wonderful.

  


x x x

  


Just when I think I'll be here forever—when I keep refusing to give them information and they keep torturing me, even though there isn't much of me left to torture, Mycroft steps in.

I don't know how long he's been here, or why he didn't intervene sooner.

He's sitting in a chair in the shadows, so I can't see his face, but I recognize his voice.

Two men are standing at my side. One is asking me questions, and when I don't give them answers, the second one cracks my back with a whip. I've gone numb. I don't even feel the pain anymore.

It's when I hear a man—my brother—say, “Leave us. I'll try to get answers myself,” that I know I'm going to make it.

“What do you say we get you out of here,” Mycroft says once everyone else is gone. “Brother mine?”

I cough and blood streams out of my mouth.

“I'm sure you've been having a lovely time, but the holiday is over. Back to Baker Street we go.”

I smile because that means I can see John Watson again and it will be perfect.

  


  


  


  



	16. Sixteen • Sherlock

**Sixteen**

**Sherlock**

“ **S** herlock, stop it. You need a doctor,” Mycroft says.

I push him away. “I have a doctor!” I snap. “And if you let me see him he could help me,”

Mycroft sighs and rolls his eyes—the classic older brother face. “You can't see John yet. You need to shave and cut your hair. You need to make a plan.”

“A plan for seeing my best friend?” I ask, snatching my shirt out of his hands and putting it back on. He gave it to me as soon as we got out, and the back is already soaked in blood.

“Sherlock—”

“Mycroft,” I cut him off. “I'm _fine.”_

He crosses his arms. “Let me take you to a doctor.”

“No.” I say, trying not to raise my voice.

Mycroft rolls his eyes again. Nothing has changed. With him at least. “Alright, fine. You don't have to see a doctor, but you should at least make yourself presentable. Watson will think you're homeless.”

I sigh and sit in the chair. “Fine.”

I sit there while Mycroft (looking far too pleased with himself) makes few phone calls.

Two hours later, cleanly shaven and wearing my signature coat and scarf, I leave Mycroft to his “very important business” and take a taxi to Baker Street.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I have a doctor."


	17. Seventeen • John

**Seventeen**

**John**

**T** he doorbell rings at 4:07pm. This isn't abnormal, it's probably one of Sherlock's fans, begging to take a look at the place to see if he's  _ really  _ dead. This has happened a lot since he left, but I never let anyone come inside. I don't want everyone else to believe he's dead too.

At this point I've lost all hope that he's coming back. It was nice to imagine for awhile—I guess it made it easier. But I know better than that now.

The doorbell rings again and that's when I remember Mrs. Hudson went out.

I push myself out of Sherlock's chair and go to the door. They ring the doorbell again just as I open the door, and the person standing in front of me is the last person I expected.

Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock?”

He smiles and nods lightly. His face is pale and his lips are chapped and cracked. He looks like absolute shit, but I'm to happy (and relieved) to see him. None of that matters right now. He's home.

I pull him in for a hug, holding him tightly. It's really him.

“John.” He says softly.

I never want to let go.

He's home.


	18. Eighteen • Sherlock

**Eighteen**

**Sherlock**

**I** 'm home.

I knew John would be excited to see me, but I didn't expect this kind of reaction from him. He looks like absolute rubbish—he has dark purple circles under his eyes and it looks like he hasn't gone outside since I left. His face his pale and his thinner than he was before. He needs a shave . . .

“I thought—”

“I know.” I interrupt.

He starts crying—actually, crying is an understatement. He's sobbing.

I never meant to cause him so much pain. I'm sorry for that.

When he pulls away he looks angry. I can't tell if he's mad that he's crying or that I'm gone, even though I'm almost certain it's the latter.

“You,” he stops crying almost immediately. “You have no idea what you put me through.”

I open my mouth to talk but he speaks before I can.

“You have no idea what you put me through.”

“I know,” I say. “I'm sorry.”

“Sorry doesn't make it better. I was your best friend. I deserved to know you were alive. Even a phone call, Sherlock. Is that too much to ask for, a simple phone call?”

There are tears in both of our eyes now.

He rolls up his sleeves to reveal all of the cuts on his forearms. Some of them have faded into scars by now, but the rest of them are fresh—either still bleeding or just scabbed over.

“I did this because of you.” He says.

And those six words are enough to break my heart in two.


	19. Nineteen • John

**Nineteen**

**John**

Sherlock starts to unbutton his shirt, and before I have the chance to ask what he's doing, he pulls his shirt off completely and turns his back to me.

There are gashes across his back, from his shoulders, disappearing into the waist of his jeans.

“I did this _for_ you.” He says quietly.

He turns back to me, and there are more cuts across his chest.

I run my fingers over the thick scars and Sherlock tilts his head down.

I look up at him and smile. “It looks like you need a doctor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Sorry for the short chapter, for my absence lately and for the Johnlock kiss being so close yet so far away. I'll hopefully update a longer chapter soon. I hope you're all doing well. <3


	20. Twenty • Sherlock

**Twenty**

**Sherlock**

I sit on the edge of my bed and quickly survey my room while John stitches up my back, shoulders and chest. I had assumed Mrs. Hudson would have donated most of my things, but looking around the room I find that everything of importance is still here, gathering dust in my dark, vacant room.

“Alright,” John says, sighing and rubbing his hands together. “That should do it. Do you need pain killers?”

“No,” I say, resting my head in my hands. “It—”

“—slows you down,” he finishes for me. “I know. I just thought I would offer.” As he stands and walks to the door I feel panic rise in my chest and I don't want him to leave.

“John.” I say suddenly.

He turns and raises his eyebrows. “Hm?”

_Stay with me please._

“Um . . . I could really use a cup of tea . . . could you . . . ?”

He smiles softly. “I'll turn on the kettle.”

As soon as the door closes I rest my head in my hands and breathe deeply. My chest feels tight and I'm tempted to go ask John for those pain killers he offered, but I know he wouldn't give me any now.

John knocks softly and opens the door.

I sit up straight as he hands me a steaming cup of tea. “Thank you.”

He nods and sits down next to me, the mattress sinking under our combined weight. “How's the pain?”

“Manageable.” I lie. I feel a hundred times lighter just by having John by my side.

“Are you sure you don't want to take anything?” he asks, glancing at my back.

I nod, taking a sip of tea which burns my throat when I swallow. “Positive, thanks.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes before John clears his throat. “Sherlock?” he says softly.

I look up at him and his eyes are stunning in the soft afternoon light creeping through the dusty curtains. I think about the day I left—how bright his eyes were against the gray sky. They were almost glowing.

“I . . . I just . . .” he sighs and runs a hand through his short, graying hair. I wonder how much of that gray hair I'm responsible for. “I want you to know that I'm . . .”

“I know.”

“No. Let me say it.” He says firmly.

I nod.

“I'm sorry.”

I don't say anything, because I know there's more he wants to say and I want to give him the opportunity to say it.

“I'm sorry if there is something I did—or didn't do—to make you leave. I know . . . I know that you didn't actually . . . do it. But—why are you laughing?”

“Because. 'Do it.' You sound like a preteen who's afraid to say sex out loud.” I snort.

John looks shocked.

“What?” I ask.

“I've never heard you say _it_ before.” He says.

We both stare at each other for a moment, trying to keep a straight face, before we both start laughing uncontrollably.

Mrs. Hudson pushes my door open a few minutes later to see what all of the noise is about and gasps when she sees me. I forgot to tell her I was back.

“Sherlock!” she screeches, running towards me with open arms.

I compose myself, stand, and let Mrs. Hudson fling herself at me.

“Careful!” John yells with a look of panic on my face.

I shake my head lightly. I don't want Mrs. Hudson to know what I went through. I don't need to worry the poor woman any more than I already have.

She puts her hand on my face and smiles broadly. “You came home.”


	21. Twenty-One • John

**Twenty-One**

**John**

**T** he three of us (Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and I) eat dinner together, and even though Sherlock has been back for half a day, I still feel like he's going to disappear at any given minute. I can tell Mrs. Hudson feels the same way; she's been staring at him through the whole meal, her eyes widening every time Sherlock moves, like she expects him to stand abruptly and fling himself out the window or something.

Sherlock has barely touched the food on his plate, which would be normal for him if his ribs and hip bones weren't sticking out so dramatically. The only clothes that fit him were pajama bottoms with an elastic waist and a white tee-shirt. Most of his clothes were donated after he left, but I kept a few of his things. I'd like to say I kept them because I thought he would come back, but that isn't why. I kept them because—

“John!”

I blink. Sherlock is staring at me with a tired expression and Mrs. Hudson is staring at me with a look of concern.

I clear my throat. “Sorry. Lost in thought. What did you say?”

“Can you please pass the butter?”

I follow Sherlock's gaze to the stick of butter sitting on a red plate next to my elbow and hand it to him.

He tears off a piece of his dinner roll and slathers it in butter before popping it into his mouth.

We finish the rest of our meal in silence, save for a few questions from Mrs. Hudson about Sherlock's whereabouts the past year and a half. Sherlock doesn't share very much information. He says he was working under cover for Mycroft and that's about it.

I make a mental note to confront Mycroft the next time I see him and ask him why he let his younger brother get beaten to a bloody pulp.

Sherlock glances at me every few minutes, and I pretend not to notice. I don't have it in me to meet his gaze.


End file.
